


Felak's Drabbles

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2005-07-07
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My heart lies with long fiction--long, LONG fiction--but here are my attempts at shortening and simplifying my writing and discovering the beauty that is in the economy of words. (NOTE: These drabbles are <i>Silmarillion</i>-based.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Valinor

**Author's Note:**

> These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

The light hurts our eyes at first. It is not as promised.

The dust in the streets is a fine powder that glistens like diamonds. The dust on our bare feet is coarse and black and makes painful blisters. We are led before the Valar in tattered furs that are warm if not beautiful, not that warmth is an issue here.

Their robes are of silk, their sandals of leather as supple as water; there are jewels on their brows. I watch for their faces to pinch at the sight of us, but they betray no emotion. "Kings of the Eldar," they say, "we invite you to join us in Valinor."

A thrill seizes my heart—but I hesitate. Thoughts of the Hither Lands trouble me. I will miss the meadows glazed in silver, the flicker of the stars in Cuivienen. I will miss the starlight on Miriel's hair.

Ingwë steps forward.

~oOo~

**Author's Notes:** This drabble was inspired by Marta's birthday drabble request: "I'm interested in moments between cultures where one considers itself more civilised than the other. What did the 'less civilised' think of the 'more civilised'." So, of course, thanks go to Marta for such a thought-provoking and inspiring topic!


	2. The Architect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart lies with long fiction--long, LONG fiction--but here are my attempts at shortening and simplifying my writing and discovering the beauty that is in the economy of words. (NOTE: These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

The Noldor are eager to build a city for us, equal in grandeur to Tirion. They are my friends, and so I accept. It would be ungrateful of me to renew my long friendship with Finwë by insulting the talents of his people. But I have no qualm with our frail huts by the sea—better to hear the songs of the waves playing upon the crystal shores. Stone muffles, subdues. Isolates.

Finwë brings his most skilled architect to Eldamar. He leads me eagerly to meet him. The boy is young and carries himself as though his spine was poured from steel. His eyes are the same deadly silver found at the base of blue flames. He might be a statue, such is his beauty.

They would become steel and stone if given the choice, I think, these Noldor.

"King Olwë," says Finwë, with a quiver of pride in his voice, "I bring you my son Fëanor."

~oOo~

**Author's Notes:** This drabble was--again--inspired by Marta's birthday request.

The premise for this drabble arise in the chapter "Of the Flight of the Noldor" in _The Silmarillion_. As Fëanor barters with Olwë for the Telerin ships, he reminds Olwë of how the Noldor once helped the Teleri in their time of need: "...[Y]ou were glad indeed to receive our aid when you came at last to these shores, faint-hearted loiterers, and wellnigh emptyhanded. In huts on the beaches would you be dwelling still, had not the Noldor carved out your haven and toiled upon your walls" (page 94, the Ballantine paperback version).

The irony, of course: Fëanor led the Kinslaying against Olwë's people. It seems their city by the sea had come with a handsome price.


	3. Service of the Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart lies with long fiction--long, LONG fiction--but here are my attempts at shortening and simplifying my writing and discovering the beauty that is in the economy of words. (NOTE: These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

**For SilverWolf's birthday: A drabble about Glorfindel, with either Ecthelion or Elrond. Being ambitious, I have tried to do both.**

~oOo~

I am hustling through the halls of the palace when I hear the music. It reminds me of the way the rains would ring upon still ponds in Valinor, cascading from the skies, silver, as though kissed by the stars.

I follow the sound to the nursery. I pause in the doorway and watch Ecthelion play his harp for the young Eärendil—who has succumbed to sleep—a melody so ancient that it is hard to forget that it was devised by one of our own and not placed by Eru in our hearts.

When the song dies on his fingers, I speak. "Babysitting?" I ask.

He turns and grins. "I do what I can to serve my King. And his son."

I look upon the sleeping child, his dreams washed by Ecthelion's music, a smile upon his lips. "And so shall we serve _his_ son." 


	4. Araman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart lies with long fiction--long, LONG fiction--but here are my attempts at shortening and simplifying my writing and discovering the beauty that is in the economy of words. (NOTE: These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

His weapon dropped to the sea with a splash. He stared out over the sea, at the ponderous clouds, lit orange from below with flickering light.

_Fire._

He came to Alqualondë to fortify his kin against, he thought, the aggression of the Teleri. He looked down at his hands, and the dried rust-brown of innocents, that he refused to now to wash.

He looked again at the fire.

He said, "Many times have you surprised me today, Maedhros." 

~oOo~

This was my first attempt at an insta-drabble, using the words splash, orange, weapon, and fortify. As it turns out, I boo-booed the word count, and so it is too short. Yes, too _short_! Somehow, this seems more triumphant for me than a bona fide drabble.


	5. The Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart lies with long fiction--long, LONG fiction--but here are my attempts at shortening and simplifying my writing and discovering the beauty that is in the economy of words. (NOTE: These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

It began as friendship. They walked beside the sea and talked of things they told no other. When he made the Tengwar, she scribed them first, writing upon the tabletop, "I love…."

Now, he is often busy, for he has more ideas than hours. But the nights belong to her, and they still talk as they used to, if their passions will allow.

She works in secret, to surprise him, and she brings him to the room beside their bedroom and takes her hand from his eyes.

A cradle.

She says, "Great things we have forged my love."

~oOo~

An insta-drabble, using the words friendship, forge (as a verb!), tabletop, and cradle.


	6. Oaths Sworn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart lies with long fiction--long, LONG fiction--but here are my attempts at shortening and simplifying my writing and discovering the beauty that is in the economy of words. (NOTE: These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These drabbles are _Silmarillion_ -based.)

The following three drabbles were written in answer to the "Ask a Character a Question" challenge for the [Silmarillion Writers' Guild](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=silwritersguild). The question, proposed by Jillian, asks Maglor: "Why did you not rescue your brother from Angband? Why did you leave the task to your cousin?"

**Oaths Sworn**

I.  
The firelight touches my brother's face as he speaks to us. The parchment in his fingers does not tremble. It would tremble in mine. "Moringotto will treat with us," he says.  
  
Our voices rise and collide in the silence. Our words tangle in senseless cacophony: argument and agreement, pale hands flashing like moths to the flame, but Maitimo says nothing. He nods, raises his palm to us.  
  
Silence.  
  
I watched my father flare into brilliance—a star in the night—and end as dust. The firelight blazes on Maitimo's hair. I can believe that he will share the same fate.  
  
II.  
My brother assembles his guard. Tyelkormo and the twins want to ride with him; I see them arguing. I know by the ways their eyes flash and their faces twist that they are losing.  
  
"If you fall, we would be closer to failure. The Oath would be broken."  
  
He strides to me, and I hold his sword for him while he mounts. We do not speak; words long since unnecessary between us. I hand him his blade, and his eyes meet mine.  
  
"If I do not return, follow me not."  
  
I have no time for protest before he rides away.  
  
III.  
The slow fall of hoofbeats in the street startles me from the surface of restless sleep. It is morning, although morning brings only darkness here.  
  
I push the drape aside and stare into the street. I see horses. The horses of Maitimo's guard have returned to their homes, but their riders have not. Their legs are speckled by dark splatters.  
  
Feeling not the cold floor on my bare feet, I throw open the door. Maitimo's horse stares me in the eye, dragging behind him by brother's trampled banner.  
  
I sob into my hand. Two oaths I should not have sworn.  



End file.
